


if it's music you want

by apolliades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Affection, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Drunk Bucky Barnes, Established Relationship, Irish Language, Irish Steve Rogers, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Quintuple Drabble, i mean he's always irish but whatever, i wrote this on the train after listening to lisdoonvarna about 16 times in a row, i'm just posting any old shite now lads!, very briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 17:37:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: "You know I don’t dance, Buck. And even if I did, who the hell would dance with me?"





	if it's music you want

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Если нужна тебе музыка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19862329) by [fandom_SteveBucky_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_SteveBucky_2019/pseuds/fandom_SteveBucky_2019), [TillTheEnd_OfTheLine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TillTheEnd_OfTheLine/pseuds/TillTheEnd_OfTheLine)



Shoes clatter on the kitchen tile. Dancing shoes, because he makes them so — they have also been church shoes, and meeting-your-mother shoes, looking-smart-even-though-I-ain’t shoes. Collar open, colour up, eyes sparkling like his grin does, Bucky whirls in and kisses Steve’s cheek with a flourish and malt on his breath, warm.

“Jesus, how much have you had to drink?” Even as his nose wrinkles Steve can’t not smile. Bucky is radiant, drunkenness beside the point. “You smell like my uncle Padraig.”

“You sound like your mother,” Bucky half-pirouettes as he turns the table corner, fingers light on the wood. “Come next time, would you? It’s fun, Stevie, it’s —” Grinning like a cat: “— good craic.”

“Now who sounds like my mother? You know I don’t dance, Buck. And even if I did, who the hell would dance with me?”

Bucky laughs like the answer is obvious and wonderful: “Me!”

He seizes him, whisks him in a clumsy flurry from the chair and into his arms, one hand warm on Steve’s waist, the other in his own. He sets up singing, loud, jubilant, like it doesn’t matter that it’s past midnight and the neighbours are sleeping, doesn’t matter if he can’t hold a tune to save his life.

“He is handsome he is pretty, he’s the belle— beau! of Brooklyn city—”

Spinning in a wild, merry waltz, bumping the furniture, laughing like a boy, Bucky spins and Steve stumbles along with him, tripping on his feet, feeling almost drunk himself on dizziness and the light in Bucky’s eyes, how he looks at him like there ain’t nothing else worth seeing.

“Amadán,” Steve calls him, clutching his hand, and Bucky just grins wider.

“He’s a-courtin’ one two three—” Bucky dips him precariously at the waist — Steve grabs at his shoulder for dear life.

“Jesus.” Breathless. “You do this to the girls at the hall?”

Bucky presses his mouth against Steve’s throat like some hungry creature. “No.”

He rights them, just about, not quite — staggers back against the sideboard, pulls Steve flush up to his chest.

“Come next time. I want you on my arm. I want to go out with my best guy.” Bucky’s mouth is a cherub pout, soft. His eyes are dark and full.

“Bucky.”

He kisses Steve indulgently, slowly, tastes of liquor and smoke, holds him pressed right close. His brow falls to Steve’s shoulder after, lolling heavy with drink, body listing gently where he stands. Steve sways with him. Not quite slow-dancing, but it’s not so far off.

“You’re my best guy,” he says, slurring, swaying. “Steve. Stevie. My Steve.”

“You’re so drunk, darlin’,” Steve tells him, pets his hair in its damp disarray. “Look at you. It’s a miracle you even made it home.”

“I’ll tell me ma when I get home,” Bucky mumbles, fast losing track of the tune, in a horrendous Irish accent. Then soft in his own: “You’re my best guy.”

“I know, Buck.” Steve pulls at him gently. “You said. C’mon, now. Time for bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll tell me ma, when I get home  
> The boys won't leave the girls alone  
> Pulled me hair, and stole my comb  
> But that's alright, till I go home
> 
> She is handsome, she is pretty  
> She is the belle of Belfast city  
> She is a-courting one, two, three  
> Pray, can you tell me who is she?
> 
> ps thanks christy moore


End file.
